DH Lawrence

Happy Birthday, DH.  You would have been 115 years old today.  Had you not died of tuberculosis back in 1930, that is.  (Sorry about that, by the way....that had to have sucked big time.)

Anyhoo, A Reader's Respite must admit that we've never been the biggest fan of your novels.  We tried.  Really, we did.  Your penchant for travel (some would call it self-imposed exile) and wanderlust always appealed to us.  The fact that you actually traded your manuscript of Sons and Lovers for property near Taos, New Mexico with the intent to set up a Utopian community really appealed to our commie, hippie-loving roots.  Sadly, despite multiple attempts, we've never made it past page 50.

handsome young whipper-snapper, wasn't he?

It's not that you were an untalented writer.  Clearly, anyone who could write Women in Love and Lady Chatterley's Lover had a bit o' the author in him (and more than a bit o' the repressed homosexuality).  It's just that as much as we appreciated the themes of your work, the actual execution left us a tad glassy eyed.

Regardless of our inability to appreciate your actual novels, we do appreciate you, Mr. Lawrence.  You took an unpopular antiwar stance during WWI, wrote about homosexuality in a time when even thinking about it was taboo, and were even briefly arrested for being a spy (how very James Bond of you!).

So happy birthday, DH.  You're still remembered fondly and really, what more could a person ask for?

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